


And Not A Soul To Hear

by VesperNexus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of Robb Stark, spoilers for 3X09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a letter crumpled in Jon's fist, and Sam thinks he knows exactly what it says.</p>
<p>Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,<br/>And not a soul to hear.</p>
<p>Or, the one where Jon finds out about the Red Wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Not A Soul To Hear

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 3x09 and A Song Of Ice and Fire: A Storm of Swords. Continue at your own discretion. 
> 
> Came to mind when John's reaction to what happened to Robb wasn't mentioned all that much. Short, a little dark and a little angsty. Doesn't delve too much into what actually happened to Robb Stark, however it's implied.
> 
> Lyrics are taken from George R.R. Martin's Rains of Castamere, because I found it fitting.

**And Not A Soul To Hear**

_But now the rains weep o'er his hall,_

_With no one there to hear._

Sam’s there when Jon gets the letter.

There’s silence, at first. The night is the darkness of a raven’s wing, blanketing over the skies with not a star in sight. There’s a flame raging in the corner, soft swirls of red and gold curling about in a fiery dance. It’s casting shadows of orange and they twirl along ash pale skin, marring the flesh which grows lighter still, like the cold frozen snows resting beyond the wall. Sam watches with eyes anxious, and fingers pressed harshly against his cloak. There are flakes of ice stuck to the fur and leather and his hair is still mussed and windblown from his hurry across the grounds. Heart beating quicker than he’d ever imagined, eyes fixated on the figure of his best friend as the thin script began to crumple beneath lean fingers.

Jon’s face shows nothing, for a moment. In his hand is a letter of the finest parchment and blackest ink, letters twirling in a laugh across aged paper like the shadows of fire dancing along his pale skin. Sam doesn’t know what’s written, in neat script and foreboding words, doesn’t think he wants to. He’s heard rumours, of course, plenty of lies and secrets and untruths hidden far too deeply. He’s heard about this one, about the letter all his black brothers have been talking about, and realises this is the one he wishes to be most untrue.

The wind’s blowing madly outside, along a sky so dark and weaving within towers high and buildings old- and it’s _so, so_ cold. But it’s when Jon’s eyes darken, darken like the ink of a maester’s scroll, darken with a black far deeper than the cloak fastened upon Sam’s shoulders, does he realise the chill is not from the wind.

It’s when Jon’s features whiten fractionally, when his fingers press tighter against the scroll, when his lips part ever-so- _slightly_ \- it’s when he _knows_.

There’s another moment of unbearable silence, only broken by the angry cackle of fire by the corner, another moment when Sam’s frozen and doesn’t quite know what to do. Jon’s motionless too, though he isn’t afraid, isn’t quite shocked either. A small breath escapes him in a mist and then there’s the sound of crumbling paper as the letter’s crushed in one tight gloved fist.

His eyes are wide and he stares at little more than the wall opposing him, keeping his side to Sam who feels utterly helpless. His dark hair trembles over those piercing eyes, and suddenly Jon’s _crumpling_.

He’s folding his long limbs and practically falling into the old wooden chair by the table, movements quick and desperate and lacking his usual fierce grace. Sam’s inching forward, subconsciously, and he’s reaching a single hand out to his friend in a helpless motion that goes unnoticed.

Jon’s elbows are resting on the table before him, hands ripping off his black gloves as if they burned him. He’s running those lean fingers through his hair and dropping his head in his palms, gaze focused downward and eyes filled with something so akin to grief, and Sam feels his heart wrench in the his chest. He’s moving quickly, and he sits opposite to his brother, before him on the miniature table. Reassurances are on the edge of his tongue, tasting so bitter and vile and useless they don’t escape the prison of his lips. So he presses them together, tightly shuts them, and forces himself to think.

Jon’s rubbing a hand over his smooth features and something stronger tugs at his heart when Sam notices a shine, a glistening to those dark, weary orbs he hadn’t before. The fire’s still dancing along his skin, in patterns of gold and red, and it doesn’t make him look as living as it should. Instead, the colour, the heat, compliments the contrast, the paleness, the _cold._

The letter’s on the table now, crumbled by the side, dancing dangerously along the edge. Jon’s attention isn’t to it; he’s staring straight at Sam with his eyes so dim and _desperate._ He’s looking at him, almost staring into his soul, yet Sam doesn’t think Jon’s really seeing him at all.

The fire crackles a little more, and Jon entwines his bare fingers and rests them by his mouth, as if mentally bracing himself. There’s a slight tremble, something to inconsistent and almost unnoticeable, and it rakes lean his lean figure. Sam forces his voice from his throat with all his might, and leans forth to do what he isn’t prepared to.

“Jon…” He whispers softly. It’s almost inaudible beneath the waves of raging winds and shaking glass, beneath the height of the mad fire and the ever-so-loud creak of wood underneath his soaked boots. He forces his tone, he’s making it a little clearer and a little louder and he’s just that much closer to him. “ _Jon.”_

It snaps his sworn brother from his reverie, his memories. Jon turns his eyes on Sam and _really_ looks at him. His gaze is lost, and swallowed by _misery,_ and it’s so, so _vulnerable._ It’s the shields that aren’t there, the barriers that have crumpled like the letter in Jon’s clenched fist, the _loss_ , the _loneliness_ , the _youth._

He thinks about how young Jon is, how young they all are, how unprepared and exposed. He thinks about the war they’ve been thrown at, the fight they’ve been forced into. He remembers their vows, to forget everything in their _past lives_ , to leave behind all they knew. To abandon family and home and love, and thinks those are things neither he nor Jon ever really left behind.

When Jon speaks, his voice is soft, quiet, and a lot firmer that Sam expects.

“I _knew,_ gods, _I knew,_ but this- I just,” his voice shakes, and Sam’s heart along with it. There’s desperation, genuine _fear_ in the eyes of the bravest black brother Sam’s ever known when he looks at him. “ _This_ makes it _real._ ”

Jon’s shaking his head a little, and he’s looking at Sam as if asking him to explain. To say something, to solve it, because Sam reads and he’s clever and he’s genuine and Jon _needs_ that right now, he _needs Sam._

“Robb’s gone.” There’s longing in his tone, and Sam doesn’t say anything. “My brother’s _dead_.” Sam reaches out a hand, and cover’s Jon’s. He guides it back to the table and feels tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. There are so many things unsaid, so many things to _remain_ unsaid.

“Jon,” his breath catches a little when those _young, weary,_ eyes look at him, desperate for answers. His breath catches and he finds his voice, because this is _Jon_ and his brother just died in this damned war and Sam needs to say _something_. “Jon, it’ll be okay.” It sounds false, even to his own ears, and Sam knows Jon is aware. He swallows and his hand tightens over the Jon’s, offering all the compassion and understanding he could never vocally express.

Jon nods, eyes still a little glazed over and no longer looking at Sam.

“I know. I know, Sam,” he’s breathless, and his orbs are clouding, his voice hitching uncertainly. “I should have left them behind,” Sam tilts his head, “when I said my vows before the gods, I _should have left them behind._ ”

_Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt to so much._

It goes unsaid.

A lot of things, Sam notices, go unsaid within the castle walls. It goes unsaid and instead there’s silence, a soft, dreary unpleasant thing. A silence which blankets them like the darkness does the sky, like the winds as they swirl about along the ice and across the aging brick and wood. It’s as cruel and unyielding as anything, and there’s silence as Samwell watches Jon Snow shatter before him.

And if he watches Jon Snow stand in desperation and cast the damned letter into the fire, he says nothing. And if he sees a silvery gleam along too-pallid flesh, if he notices a slip of a tear along a cheek, he does not mention it. If Jon falls by the fire and buries his face in his palms, lost and vulnerable and so young, he does not speak a word of it. And when he sits by him, and the younger brother’s head rests on his shoulder as they listen to the cackle of the fire and wonder through the desperation, he admits nothing of it.

Because the following morning, when Jon’s eyes are a little darker, and his shoulders a little more hunched, and he consumes nothing but a swing of frozen tea for brunch, Sam knows it is not his place. Robb Stark died a short while ago, and when Jon eats just a little less by the day, when he’s up by sunrise and his eyes are shadowed by a lack of sleep, when his wrists begin to thin and he only speaks when he’s spoken to, Sam knows a little part of Jon died him.

And when the war begins to rage, and they’ve all shed a little blood, and there’s fear hanging off every word, Sam doesn’t say a thing about the night Jon shattered. He’s building himself up and there’s a will within that frozen exterior and Sam knows the grief weighs heavy upon his heart, but Sam doesn’t say a thing because he’s finally doing it.

Jon’s leaving them behind, he’s letting history be history and he’s living every day as it is.

Robb Stark died and Samwell doesn’t say a thing because Jon Snow is still living.

 

_Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,_

_And not a soul to hear._

 


End file.
